


Let Down Your Hair

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You realized it was time to stop being the child and it was time to braid your own hair and get going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Down Your Hair

There was always a hustle of activity around you, no matter the time or place. Figures coming and going, dressed in greys and browns and shades in between. Heads bobbed past you, tall and short, black and white. A repetition of opposites. 

You stuck out like a sore thumb. Short legs swung off the side of the street, a gap stretching down into the oceans that the colony resided on. You weren't white. You weren't black. You wore pinks and whites and blacks because that's what you had in your house and that's what fit. Your house looked different and your skin looked different, but above all else it _felt_ different too. Everyone else you knew had a hard shell, a thick outer coating. Yours was soft.

They liked to squish it sometimes and it made you giggle. They'd squish and tease and call you Little Rogue and the Rogue Lady. You didn't really know what they meant. You just like how the letters fit together and you write them over and over, a white shell hovering and guiding you as you wrote.

Not everyone is so nice to you. Sometimes they squish and pinch and it hurts instead of being gentle, and you feel your eyes get wet. Your friends would comfort you, but their bodies were hard and unforgiving and you sometimes preferred to hide in your house and cry into the pillows that had been left for you. 

They had to be for you, after all. They had your initials on them.

When you would venture back outside, you would be swarmed. Your friends missed you, hugged you, and you smiled and grinned and they took your hair in their hands and braided it down your back, long and flowing and tight and solid. 

That was another difference, too. None of them had it. But most of them liked it. They'd braid in the few flowers that grew and you'd smile at them, and they'd smile back down and pat your head. It was enough for you and it made you happy, though none of you were really sure what to do with all of it and it never seemed to stop growing.

When you weren't outside, you were in your house. It was strange, and for some reason you always tried to keep it secret from the others. It just felt like something that was all yours, and you shouldn't have to share it.

It was large, and no matter how many times you poked around it felt like there was more to discover. Everything did something but didn't have instructions, and you fell and got scraped and burned more times than you had ever wanted to just by looking through your house. There were bottles of a strange tasting liquid that made your mind blur, windows that let you travel from room to room and other places you were too scared to go look at. Devices that beeped and flickered and you could type onto it, but no one ever replied.

Some strange men littered it, none of them real. Some were made of metal and some of material and you grew fond of looking at their wise faces whenever you made your way through the house, and they became something you looked forward to seeing each time you made your way back home. That and the strange cat in the blue rectangle that sits on a shelf in your room. You liked it. You wished there were still cats around. They were something that you had and no one else ever could. Not around here at least.

The house rattled at night, and it sometimes sent shivers down your spine, and you'd clench your blanket tight and your plush wizard, as you learned they were called, even tighter. You'd curl, twisted up between pinks and whites and wait for the sun to break through outside, but it never would come when you needed it or when you felt like the whole place would shatter around you.

Some days you would go outside, braids tapping on your back, a hand waving to your friends, when someone would grab you and the sky would darken and you'd all hide in the shadow of a dumpster or under the kitchen table or in a closet. A cold black hand would hover over your mouth, and outside darts of red and black could be seen before you squeezed your eyes shut and held your breath.

Everyone knew the drones were trouble. It was the first thing you were taught. And it was the one thing you always paid attention to, the one thing that would stop you from doing anything else. There was a witch out there, your friends would whisper, and she can't know about you. So you stand, shaking and stiff all at once, and waited. There was never any light but you didn't need it. You would play with a lock of hair and wait and when it was all over you would thank whoever had helped you. 

They were good to you and you had no way of helping them. Sometimes you would all sit and your stomachs would rumble, but you would give your food up for the younger kids and the older people and even the ones who hated you and pulled your long hair and tore it off your head. You were the Rogue Lady, you had to do something. 

So you explored more and you drew your hair up high on your head and put on your hard boots and clenched your hands into fists, because it was the only weapon you had. Without saying, without any notice or mental buildup, you realized it was time to stop being the child and it was time to braid your own hair and get going.

You went through a window. 

It was dark, but you gritted your teeth and kept going forward, exploring through a labyrinth of turns and twists. Your eyes settled on a green glow in the distance, and your hesitant steps because faster as you ran towards it. 

A field of energy or something filled the room, cubes of green sitting on the floor and a giant machine on the far wall. At first you poked at the green blocks, finding how they could pull out and seemed to have something that looked like the plugs in your house on them. Fascinated for a few moments, you traced their cold surface with your fingers, stray pieces of hair escaping your braids and spilling into your vision.

Rumbles sounded in the distance. A hurried glance over your shoulder, and you dashed towards the large contraption. It seemed to be off, and maybe right then you didn't have the chance to play around because someone might hear you in here. But there was a box on the table and it seemed so out of place. Brown and weary and broken among the sleek and daunting machinery. 

You grabbed it and stuffed it under your arm, rushing back to the window you came from, making the leap down into the darkness to the small light on the other side. You landed with a thump on the floor, taking a few deep breaths.

It wasn't until you were safe under a pink wizard covered blanket that you sought to open the package. Fingers traced over the brown packaging, the paper crumbling and tearing the more you brushed it. Brows furrowed as you noticed a patch of black, some kind of fancy writing emblazing the side of the gift or present or nightmare.

_For my daughter._

You had read some of the books in your house and you knew what a daughter was, but you weren't sure if that person was really you or not, and if this meant at some time you really _had_ been born and lived and maybe somewhere out there you had a family, just like the tales you would read?

You rip open the package. Inside there sits a note, a thin paper book, and a picture.

The woman in the picture was lean and bony and compact and tiny and full of something you don't know how to describe. She stood beside a man taller than him, wearing shades and a serious face, top heavy and gruff, put together in a suit stitched to his body. You flipped it over and it reveals no further clues, and maybe this is your mother, maybe it all was meant for you after all. 

The thin book was an instruction manual of sorts, detailing two different types of ectobiology thing or something. The words confused you but the theory and numbers clicked in your mind, and you shifted and twitched as you read the book, pulling out your braids and holding the book between your toes, eyes focusing on absorbing all the information in one sitting.

You read the note once, and only once, before you folded it and tucked it into your desk drawer.

You started going back to the lab more and more often, looking for different clues and different ties with both your past and what you could do for your friends now. You found a device that's small and red and after some days spent practicing, you managed to grab a pumpkin through from _somewhere_. You gave it to your friends and they smiled, and you knew you had done something right. 

A lot of time was spent playing with the machine on the wall, too, and you tried your hand at making clones and cats. At first you just made a bunch of strange, mutant things, which you hung on the shelf beside your other cat. It wasn't long before you had more animals than you knew what to do with running around.

Sometimes you could feed your friends, and sometimes the cats, and that made you happy. You would braid your hair every morning and try and go further, explore more, help more. You brought back green energy cells to supply your home with better power. You sent messages out into the ether, looking for some whisper of another person. The days were long and hard but you did it anyway.

You took up reading. It was something you had always had interest in. It was down time, between jumping through windows and searching for food at the edge of nowhere. It became something you really enjoyed. 

The books you read were hers. Your mother's. And you didn't waste any time reading once you figured that out. You read them cover to cover, over and over, between every single thing you did. They weren't always good or logical but they made you think. They made you wonder about the rebellion that went so right but did nothing. And about how there was ultimately nothing to be done against the Condesce but damn, your mother tried anyway.

They quickly became your favourites. You traced your favourite words and the picture of your mother on the back flap. When you finally brought a cat through - a real cat, not just a clone, it came through clear and true and without ectobiology or cloning - you named him after your hero in the story. 

Frigglish became your best friend. The only other warm thing you'd ever really known.

Until the day you heard a beep at the computer.

Despite all your fears and all the creatures out for you, you had never run quite so fast. Your hands slammed on the table, skimmed and read and read again. There had been a reply. Someone replied. 

It was just a simple "Are you there?". You knew it was enough. You typed a quick yes. 

The two of you gushed immediately. You both skidded around names or details and were both saddened to realize the other was alone. But you knew that was okay, because he proved someone else was there, even if it was just him. The first human you ever met was a boy and the first thing you ever did with him was go on camera.

You told him you'd never seen another human before that wasn't in a picture. You cried. Not a lot - just a little. He did too but he tried to hide it. His hair was spiked and random and his body was lanky and you didn't even care. His pointy shades hid his eyes but he grinned pretty widely.

He called you Sleeping Beauty and you assured him you were very much awake. You didn't really understand why he said that, and he waved a hand to dismiss it. His voice crinkled over the line and you were so amazed that you were sitting there, looking at another human.

The next day he called you Rapunzel instead. You told him in no uncertain terms you weren't a princess. You didn't have a castle or servants or anything. He shrugged and told you to wake up sometime when you were asleep. He didn't make sense. You weren't sure you liked him.

At first you avoided him as you went about your day. You would visit your friends, do your work, braid your hair, read. But your eyes wandered and you couldn't help but feel bad. You were all he had. He was completely alone. It might have been guilt, or curiosity, but something drew you back to the computer screen.

There was a lot to talk about. He made robots and scuba dived and talked to aliens that he assured you were friendly, but you didn't trust that at first and tried to keep talking about him and you. It became easier and you got used to how he talked. You would go on after a long day of working or fighting or arguing, hunker down in front of your computer, and chat.

Sometimes you would use your cameras, if you felt lonely or he did or sometimes just to show him something. You talked about the carapace, the water, the Baronness, your cats, your ancestors as he called them, and movies. He sent them to you and you didn't understand them, but his brother had made them and you watched them anyway. You watched them instead of reading, instead of finding food, and the more you watched them the more you talked to him.

When you did go outside, your friends would approach you, would shower you with messages about how they missed seeing you, how they loved you, how they wondered where you went. They missed their Rogue Lady. You nodded and shrugged and checked over your shoulder. You worked fast. You worked well. You were back talking with him sooner than you ever expected to be. Sometimes he wasn't there and you'd read or go out or play with cats. But he never asked how you had free time and neither did you.

You visited the lab and tried to avoid the cats and the carapace. Your visits were short. You didn't explore. You talked to him as the drones flew overhead and he comforted you, and you squeezed a wizard close and read his comforting text over and over until the sun returned.

He called you Rapunzel and you called him Prince Charming and he laughed, and you laughed, and he tried to get you on board because he was pretty sure he had found someone else to talk to, but you still didn't trust his alien friend and weren't sure you should. Sometimes your chest felt funny when you talked. It always did when he smiled.

The books you read sometimes talked about romance. About two people who wanted to be together and you thought maybe, maybe. With him. It was stupid, but the more you talked the more you realized that maybe there was something there, and maybe you were just stupid kids, but maybe he liked you too.

You asked him to video chat that night. There he sat on a bed, robots and horses stacked in the back. Something stirred in your chest and you felt nervous. Afraid. He asked what was wrong, Rapunzel, did one of your cats steal your tongue for food? And how do you even take care of them all? What was so interesting about your skirt that day that made you keep staring at it?

It came out in a gush. You knew there was something there and you couldn't explain it, and you just wanted to know if he felt the same and if he wanted to meet somehow and you never felt this way, and he was special. It wasn't just because he was the first person you met. It was knew and special and you wanted so badly to have _something_ , and you watched his face fall as your heart sank and something shrunk inside you.

The blow wasn't as crushing at first. You nodded and laughed and smiled and finished the chat, closing the conversation, before you began to sob.

You never cried. 

You were fed up with being Rapunzel. Your Prince wasn't a real Prince, and he didn't love you, and he wasn't going to climb a tower, and you had been a fool. You had never been a princess and you had been an idiot to let him think you were. You missed being a rogue, you missed your friends, and you hated everything. It wasn't fair.

He didn't love you. Not even a little. And he barely looked hurt saying it.

Locks of hair fell in your face, and you shoved them aside angrily. You didn't want this anymore. None of it. Vision blurring, you ran to the washroom, stumbling in. Frigglish watched you go, eyes peaceful and you shooed him away. You hauled open a drawer, pulling out a pair of scissors from the drawer.

Rogues didn't need hair. Only princesses did. Only cowards did.

You were your own person and you loved wizards and cats and reading and maybe him but you weren't a princess. You were never a princess.

You never needed the hair.

With clammy hands you grabbed a fistful of pale locks, attaching it with your scissors. The hair fell in matted piles on the floor, and you watched in the mirror as the blades ripped and tore. You cut and tugged and snipped and sniffled, all around your head, cuts uneven and varied and fast. Fingers tossed loose hairs to the floor. You shook the tendrils of the fairy tale off your shoulder, and they fell into a white ring around your feet.

The girl in the mirror wasn't you. Her cheeks were red and stained with lines of water, her eyes swollen and snot dribbling out her nose that you wiped with the back of your arm. Hair stuck out from her neck and it was so messy.

She looked horrible, breakable, hideous, and painfully happy.

You ran your fingers through your hair and laughed, and laughed, and even as you stifled a choke and a sob you laughed. Something grew again. Your head felt light and your shoulders felt light and you hated him, but the hair was gone and you were free. 

You went back to your room. You carefully opened the note folded in your desk. You smoothed the corners, the wrinkles, and read it over and over, until there were more tears in your eyes. Your chest ached. Your body shook. Loose hairs still fell to the ground. You slid the letter back in the desk.

You didn't speak to him for two weeks. You went outside, greeted your friends, who were shocked to see your new haircut. They played with it and questioned it and you laughed again, raised your fists, and said their lady was back in action, and you were. You worked and slaved and fed them and reconnected.

You sat in your room and drank the awful burning liquid. It seared your throat, but the more you had, the lighter you felt, until you felt so light that you threw it all back up in the toilet. You coughed, choked, napped on the floor. The next day you had a wicked headache and got up and did it all again.

He didn't apologize when you spoke to him next. He said he liked your hair, but you missed a spot on the one side. It was hard. You felt a small ache inside you but you finally took a deep breath and asked him about his friends. It came out slurred and you realized maybe you shouldn't have had that last drink before coming online to face him again.

He beamed at you. He said he had a way of maybe talking to someone in the past. It might not be your mom but it was someone. He babbled and spoke and it slurred in your mind, but it was better than facing it head on. You could be the rogue, the hero, but you couldn't talk to him just yet.

Maybe Roxy Lalonde was a princess after all.


End file.
